Honestly. by Robert Ragan

I'm the roadkill you drive past 

A corpse deep in the ground underneath a tombstone spray painted with curses

Weird how I'm alive and breathing 

When my time finally comes 

The people who abandoned me 

Will claim they were there 

The people who put me down 

Will speak highly of me 

The real ones won't attend 

They'll tell it like it is 

From the comfort of their own Hell 

He was a good for nothing lowlife 

Who didn't care about anyone but himself 

Yeah that's what I want to hear 

The thought of such honesty sends chills up my spine 

The ones who were there 

Will be better off without me 

I just want them to remind all the liars 

Of how I really felt about them 

They don't care 

And I never gave a fuck about what they thought of me either

Robert Ragan, from Lillington, NC writer of short stories and poetry has been published online at Vext Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, and The Dope Fiend Daily. Alien Buddha Press has published his first short story collection "Mannequin Legs and Other Tales".

Under The Full November Moon by Ian Lewis Copestick

Under a large, round, yellow
Full November moon
The chill of the cold, dark night
Slips in through my window
It fights against the central heating
To send a  shuddering shiver
Down my spine

Under the full November moon
People spill out of smoky pubs
Leaving heat, light, music.
A false inebriated happiness
To stagger, swirling home
To warm beds of love
Or  cold, empty houses
And late night T.V.

Under the full November moon
Teenager's breath leaves
Clouds in the air, hanging heavy.
Mingling with smoke from
Serruptitious spliffs
Held in cupped hands
Hanging around shops, parks
Even the disappearing phone boxes
Feeling the arrogance of youth
Course through their veins

Under the full November moon
The middle aged sit
In armchairs with tea mugs
T.V. droning, as they dream
Of their youth, when they were
Slim and beautiful
Or hungry and virile
Before it all slipped
So quickly away

Under the full November moon
Swingers swap flesh and fluids
In hotels and motels
With no more passion or emotion
Than passing the salt

Under the full November moon
Prostitutes haul their tired, aching bodies
From car to car, for the price of a hit
Dealers swagger, stoked full of crack
With all the power and arrogance
Of medieval lords

Under the full November moon
People sweat in police cells
Under itchy, grey blankets
On blue, rubber mattresses
In a white tiled nightmare

Under the full November moon
I think of them all
As I sit writing lines
In a cheap, lined notepad
I drink my last beer
Then I turn out the lights
As the full November moon
Bids goodnight
To us all

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.

The End Of Another Night. by Ian Lewis Copestick

  

" AND FUCKING STAY OUT ! "

I could feel my feet trying to gain traction on the concrete as I went skidding, slipping and sliding across the pavement. Then I felt my ankle twist as I went off the edge of the kerb.

BANG !!!!

A shudder ran through me, all the way from my knees as they hit the road to my head as it jerked around on my shoulders.

"Well, that's one way to leave the pub' " The thought bubbled, burbled up to my concious mind from somewhere beneath all of you the Guinness and whiskey and cokes. " Pretty fucking stylish too ." I tried my best to cling on to this thought in my drunken befuddlement, it was better than the reality.

Oh Shit, the reality, the last thing I remember was being involved in a stupid argument with some woman about how rap music had gone downhill and lost any integrity that it may have had at one time..

Then I stood up, in a way that I thought brought the discussion conclusively to an end. I stumbled towards the bar to get another drink, lost my footing went head firnignto a table full of drinks, the bar man grabbed me by the collarand that's where we came in.

" AND FUCKING STAY OUT ! "

I slowly manipulated myself onto my hands and knees, crawled back to the pavement. As I got to the wall of the shop next to the pub, I put my hands on the wall and slowly, carefully worked my way back to my feet.

I leaned against the wall, taking several deep breaths. In, out, in, out, in out, in, out.

Once I was sure that I wasn't going to vomit, I tried a tentative step. That went O.K., I'll try another. O.K.

Left, right, left, right, left, right.

The coloured lights outside the takeaway seemed blurry, as if I was looking at them through water.

I hobbled on down the road, pain in my knee and my palms from hitting the road.. Every few steps I stopped, wobbled slightly, reviewed my position, then slowly, uncertainly I carried on.

Let, right, left, right, left, right. I kept on repeating the rhythm in my head, it seemed to help 

The bus stop looked about a hundred miles away, and at this rate it would take me the rest of the night to get there.

I could see the taxi rank,, not much nearer, but easier to get to in my state. A taxi would leave me pretty broke though.

As the thought of money entered my head, I instinctively checked my pockets for. cigarettes.

" YES " Victory ! At least I hadn't left my fags in the pub, or crushed them as I fell.

I fumbled them out of my coat pocket, felt around in my trousers for a lighter. I stopped, leaning against the wall as I struggled to get a gag into my mouth, then I had to work out the complicated mathematics involved in lighting my lighter and touching the flame to my cigarette .

That wasn't easy. I took a long, deep pull, filled my lungs and then exhaled. Wow ! That felt good !

I felt a bit more in control of the situation. If I could achieve that, I could achieve anything.

Next problem, transport.

I couldn't walk home, it was at least a couple of miles. That just wasn't possible.

The bus stop looked too far away and having to stay awake and alert so that I could see where I had to get off just seemed too much. It had to be a taxi.

I stumbled, staggered to the nearest cab, " Newchapel, please mate."

The Asian driver looked blankly at me, or it might as well have been, straight through me. I tried again type " Newchapel, mate ? "

At this, he unlocked the doors, they keep them locked most of the time, whether they are driving or not. I guess it's so that the drunks can't get IN to rob them when they are parked up, and the drunken passengers can't jump OUT to run off without paying 

Anyway, I climbed in, put on my seatbelt and collapsed back into the seat with a sigh.

Off we went.

The end of another night.

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer ( I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash .

Just Remember by Smokey Dodge

The old dog kept up as long as he could .
He whimpered when he had to stay behind .
I was old to , so I decided to stay and keep him company .

We all need more friends as loyal as old dogs and even older fools .

Smokey Dodge 

Has been a drifter and lover of life .

He has seen the bad and always prefers to focus on the good .

His work has appeared in the Dope Fiend Daily .

The Small Press Now Publishes More Than Midgets, You See. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The age of discrimination

is over.

Please submit 3-5 poems

or one work of fiction

(not exceeding 5000 words)

as a single attachment

or in the body of

an email.

Response time is usually

between 4-6 months.

No themed issues.

Simultaneous submissions  

welcome.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.